Black Widow Oblivion

This is another fictional story from The black widow series. Enjoy. All characters are just figments of my imagination. Any or all resemblance to an individual is merely coincidence.

She (the black widow) sat hours in her easy chair, oblivious to the world around her, including her children. She furiously stretched her mind into the massive organ it is by spending countless hours crushing candy as if it were her only reason to live. She spent every waking moment doing as little as possible just so she could crush those striped candies into a big win.

Without a care in the world the widow crushed candy all the while ignoring her husband as if he never existed, whilst her children were raiding the pantry for every sugary, carb loaded treat they could find. Laundry was piled into mountainous heaps in the garage as if the washer itself had violently vomited them across the floor. Which isn’t surprising since the clothes often smelled so putrid and so sour it would make you gag if you smelled them, thinking they were clean.

The widow was typically in a real maddening hurry and had no choice, but to run over the laundry with her car. She never had a problem rolling over those stacks of dirty jeans, t- shirts, towels and underwear like speed bumps in the car line at school. She couldn’t be bothered with that stufg, she was just too tired. She wasn’t even going to be able to cook because she was so tired. Besides, she really needed to get to her easy chair and crush candy.

She spent so much time engrossed in candy bombs that she never saw the beautiful bombs chasing around her very ignored husband by her back. They snickered and laughed, asking him why he was even with her. They loved coming to her parties where she tired to sell some kind of plastic bowl or scented waxy shit because the widow loved to drink. And, when she did… They would go on the hunt for that sexy husband of hers that she didn’t even know she had. She would sit on her sofa, pounding beer from a bottle, laughing about menial things no one really wanted to talk to her about. That gave the perfect little out for a friend to slip out to the garage.

The widows friend spotted the highly attractive husband in the garage. He had been hiding from the cats in the house when one, bad, little kitty escaped. She pawed and nipped hoping he would play. The kitty friend told him the widow never had to know, meowing like a cat in heat.

To be frank here, this sort of thing happened quite often. But, as fate would have it, the widow wouldn’t have noticed. She couldn’t have because, she was so very very busy. Busy making ass imprints on the sofa with her dildo, that is….

It was obvious she didn’t want her husband like the babysitter did. And, she couldn’t possibly want him like those women at church who loved their fitness training. They frequently invited him over for some cross training, if ya know what I mean…

The widow sure loved the energizer bunny, while her closest, and dearest friend was still fantasizing about the time she had her way wity the widows husband. Of course, the dear friend never told the Widow, but then again, she never told the widow she had once warned her husband before their marriage not to marry her because she was a user.

Which of course, all of that said was true. The woman couldn’t do a thing on her own, she needed him to do everything for her or slave her children out. She couldn’t clean the house and she couldn’t cook, and she certainly couldn’t do laundry anymore than she could clean her ass. She was busy you know and that was a chronic problem, but then again so was her month long periods too.

Behind her back people whispered. She thought she had snowed them all including the congregation at her church, but her husband had been two steps ahead the whole time. He never let an opportunity go without sharing to the Pastor and other deacons about her “personal issues”.. Like the one where she puts her ass print on the sofa…

Unbeknownst to her, he forwarded her emails she sent him, photos of food rot crusted in the fridge, laundry stacked in the garage and filth everywhere she never cleaned. He recorded her cussing like a sailor and let the pastor hear what she really sounded like when no one was listening. He even sent the church, the most damning email of all, where she admitted to all her egregious acts.

One day, her husband decided that he had never loved her and put her to the curb. He had only felt sorry for her little snot nose toddler she had when he met her and against his better judgment stayed for the rug rat. But, that rug rat had grown up and it was time. He hadn’t found her attractive for years and years. He couldn’t stand her voice anymore than he could stand her, so… he left.

She thought she had won. She gloated around town like she had just taken him to the cleaners, except he didn’t want anything she got. Andvthe best part was he had the last laugh. He had bested her in her own playground.

Every week she went to church after he left, and told the poor abandoned wife tale, they placated her and then snickered all over again. They laughed and made fun of her knowing she was the liar and fake that she was. They knew, because her husband made sure to let everyone know the truth, just before he divorced her. In fact, she may never have known what all those sideways glances were actually for and probably wouldn’t have wanted know either.

She had been made a fool in her own backyard. If it couldn’t get any worse for her, it did when her son began telling the world about her drunken escapades with men from dating apps. She thought no one knew, but everyone knew. Her place of employment knew, her church, her neighbors and even her so called friends.

The black widow had been stripped of her power and dethroned. Her crown was stripped and she had to sell the big house, trade in the mom mobile and take the demotion in front of the entire world and God.

Thank you for reading ❤️

Spent tea leaves

Definition: Spent tea leaves – those leaves (or hypothetical leaves) used and without flavor.

I’ve had many flavorful cups of tea in my lifetime. Some so full of flavor I could savor them till the last drop. I have equally had teas that merely lacked depth or flavor of any kind regardless of how long it was steeped.

More often than not, those lacking are the same ones that leave a bitter or just dissatisfied disappointment behind to only become those irritatingly stuck leaves that must be scrubbed from the fragile porcelain of my tea cup. Then again, they have equally been known to leave a pesky stain that not even the greatest of solvents can devour.

Such a pity, that is. And then, disappointment reoccurs all over again. The truth is, most of the time I have been blessed by finely tuned senses that allow me to discern when a particular brew won’t be as splendid as it sounds, but then again there is always that one that slips by and surprises me with nothing more than bland palate.

I can’t say I expect anyone other to have the same feelings about that one vile tea in question or be any less loyal to whatever ingredients have been forged together that’s “supposed” to be amazingly brilliant. However, being true to myself and incapable of faking it even for the Queen herself, I must admit it’s shit.

Let me clarify further, I may not fully understand all the ins and outs in tea mixology, but, I ‘am capable of understanding the basics. With that being said, it really doesn’t matter how strong the base leaf is, if it’s mingled with lesser quality leaves, spices and or flowers, it’s still going to be shit. In fact, those lesser quality leaves have the unique ability to completely taint and destroy the stronger leaf used as the base note.

Further more, the conclusion is starkly clear and my analogy is such, It only takes but a tiny drop of mud to obliterate, destroy and utterly ruin untouched, fresh water.

Now, if we break this down further we must take a look at the maker of thus said shit tea. It might be understandable if perhaps the maker were a random stranger by which you, yourself know nothing about, however if you should be so fortunate to actually know this particular maker of shit, then I’d say it changes everything. Don’t you?

First, and that is going on that we “know” the maker, is to examine their intentions as well as their interests. Meaning, what is it that lies just beneath the very surface of thus said person. I must beg to ask, what emotions are they hiding in the deepest facets of their mind and are they aware they have whole heartedly mislead the drinker, which of course in this scenario, myself.

I’d imagine, and that’s if I choose to guess, this person isn’t fully aware of their ill fortune. Which, I can only presume has to do with some kind of emotional attachment to the leaves in question. It is, with out doubt that those with attachments shall indeed defend those poor quality ingredients. However, before you begin to think poorly of the mixologist, you must understand they aren’t necessarily defending the blandness of its taste nor the lack of depth and flavor but more so the mixologists choices for choosing such shit to begin with.

For the most difficult part of this discussion, we may devilishly dig into the actual reasoning behind the mixologists desire to continue steeping such garbage. Well, that one is really quite simple my friends. Guilt. Pure, and not to be confused as lacking in any way, guilt.

Surprised? I know, it’s a challenge to think that something of such a lower vibration could affect someone so ruthlessly, but, as we all know, it’s quite common. Guilt, is the hidden seed hiding among the leaves as nothing more than loyalty, but it’s still guilt no matter how many times this brew is steeped and served. It will remain as it is, unfulfilling, bland and with rapid tendency to grow rather cold, most quickly.

The mixologist isn’t unaware either, that’s what makes it so divinely complicated because they do know all of the above. The thing is, they are willing to die on that hill than to accept, openly, they have created and sold a truly crappy cup of tea. And, to go a bit further with that, they have chosen to instead toss such blastedly grotesque and unpalatable concoction by holding tighter to it still.

I must add, and although, perhaps I should not, I will go on to say, the biggest mistake made by the mixologist and to plainly put it, unfathomable to allow such a tea without any true substance to permanently stain the finest bone China in the cupboard.

If I keep to the complicated and narrow path about the mixologist in question here, then quite simply, there isn’t much more to be said. But, as you would know the ways of “this” particular witch, then surely you already understand the story doesn’t end with the mixologist. No no, that would be most boring wouldn’t it?

Indeed, it would.

Try as it might, can you imagine the betrayal of the quest sipping this wretched tea? I can. It’s not pleasant. In fact, it’s most unpleasurable. It does not matter if the mixologist has upsold his/her mixings nor does it matter what the mixologist actually thinks about the brew itself on a whole. What matters most, and is of utmost importance here, in this moment, is the sheer ability for the sipper to see with their (my) own eyes the nasty stain beginning to form around the rim of their (my) favorite, and least to add, finest tea cup. If that weren’t enough then surely my smile has begun to fade when upon smelling this particular mix of spices and leaves I detect something sour. I have to admit, I expected so much more when the tea finally touched my lips. I had already imagined the idea of it swirling across my tongue and how the chords would perhaps be sour followed by notes of sweet spice but to my own shock and amazement, I tasted nothing more than the weakest hints of spent tea leaves, used and reused to the point of being useless. There is not and shall never be enough cream nor the brownest sugar or the sweetest honey that could hide that factor alone.

If that were a nightmare in the sense of taste then surely one might understand the horror when I, in fact, managed to swallow down this weakened shit without regurgitatimg on to the fine Persian rug at my feet, saw what that wretched tea had done to my beautiful little tea cup.

No longer that creamy shade of porcelain, but now stained with an ugly greenish brack stain was a hideous crack down the side, all the way to the stem. Try as I might, I carefully attempted to clean the delicate pores of the cup, now forever stained in hopes of repairing the crack when something more egregious and sinister happened in the blink of an eye, the cup merely vanished before my very eyes.

Unbelieving, I searched the pool of soapy water, first calmly, and then frantically for my precious cup. You see, it was more than special to me and not just something in which I might sample teas with or relish in its fine craftsmanship inside a protected hutch. This cup, this very special and priceless cup had been gifted by my the only love I have ever had. It was beyond precious, it held value that was irreplaceable and although I am aware an object should not hold such merit, it nevertheless was a pearl of great price, to me.

Hands empty and bare, In that moment, I realized that very bland and useless tea of no value had just consumed something quite valuable and even with that swimming in it’s bland belly, I doubt it was full. Rage, anger and unfathomable, inhuman thoughts raced in my head in a dizzying blur. Clarity regained control and then what came, and not to my surprise but the most foul curses for such a heinous act. I wanted revenge and nothing more, still do. But, if you are wondering, how might one take revenge upon the great nothingness?

It’s an enigma, you see?

That leaves me, really, with only one further look down this morbid rabbit hole and that is to the mixer himself. At first, upon viewing more closely, I thought my feelings were mirrored back. That, is of course the travesty in this situation of rotten tea and vaporized cups when I realized what I had failed to see all along.

What is tangible, and real, is not always valued as priceless. Sometimes, the priceless entity is merely the idea of something being tangible, although, simply is not. It’s that very idea, that one can value so highly, so important and precious that they have mistakenly put all their loyalty into, hoping it will return one day as something whole. But, an idea is just that, an idea. Even more disheartening is watching that person set aside what they held whole to put a protective value on an empty dream.

My beloved has si ce replaced my precious tea cup and I do love it very much, but it will never be the first. That, which, was taken from me. It matters not that the mixer tries desperately, and fails miserably to hide his secrets from me. It only matters that it still hurts my heart over and over just as it was the day I first sampled his brew and tried very much to love it, although I could not, to only have that which I loved taken from me simply because, I was the one, holding out my cup.

The moral of this story is at best, a cup with a hole in the bottom, will never be filled and a spent tea will never regain its flavor.

Thank you for reading ♥️

Birds behind iron, bite

I don’t always play nice when I am put on your iron perch. I don’t like the straight lines or running out of sunlight anymore than I like following the lines set forth.

Like cobalt ink on thick paper and one drop of water, I bleed. I was never meant to be in one form nor was I meant to carry the pinkish rings around my wrists from your shackled chains.

I was meant to be on a throne, instead of this cage of your own accord. You believe I am niave, blinded by my emotions, but I am neither. My vision is acute and my walk is steady.

To light a match doesn’t mean I am playing anymore than it means I’ll get burned. I can feel my way through the dark by nothing but my finger tips. I know as much as can feel because some things don’t change.

Fuck your iron perches and all the mounting weight of significant knowledge you think I don’t possess. Fuck your inability to hear me without believing you aren’t in control.

The more you control, the less I feel right and the more I don’t feel right the less control I have.

Fuck all of that, I will bite. It’s a simple price to pay for your lack of understanding compromise.

You didn’t let me perch freely on your shoulder or sit quietly next to you. The iron is cold beneath my feet and turns my blood to a warm shade of icy demise.

Take this blanket of yours a fly.

Thank you for reading ♥️